


Neurosis

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: Blood, Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Trauma, big yikes my dudes, or attempted comforting at least lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9074068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: " It’s 3:20am and Tourin has never been so scared for another man’s life. He’s never seen Jenner’s eyes look so glassy and lost, nor seen trembles so close to convulsions. The fingers of Jenner’s left hand tangle his greying hair while he stares into a too-full glass of wine that he holds tight in the other. His knees are weak, though he doesn’t stand, hunched over his desk as if working. His eyes scan everything, but take nothing in, and he’s never before looked so grey... "
 A young Gelert Assassin spirals into a crisis after he finds his wife murdered in their home, and his little cousin Tourin tries to help him stay sane through the night. Tries.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HOO BOY okay... basically all you need to know for this one is that my headcanon for how the Gelert Assassin got his job was that his wife was murdered, then he sought out her killers and killed _them_ , so this is a scene that takes place shortly after he finds his wife's body and is trying to decide what to do about it. Oh, also, he found out who the killers were by casting a spell that allowed him to see what she'd seen just before she died. Yeah. Not fun.
> 
> I will forever headcanon that he and Prince Tourin are cousins and I will literally fite anyone who tries to tell me otherwise okay.
> 
> Also, my headcanon for the assassin's true name and such is that he was born a spotted Gelert by the name of Jenner Rathbone, but he changed his name to Simeon following his wife's murder and his turning grey and his, uh, switching profession, for lack of a better term. So yeah.
> 
> //also also whispers it's been months but this still may or may not be my favourite thing i've ever written pffptpfft//

It’s 2:44am, and Jenner’s feeling his heartbeat in his wrists.

At this point, he can’t even say that his thoughts are a mess, because it feels like he doesn’t have thoughts at all. What  _is_  this horrible feeling that’s filling his head? It feels warm, and syrupy, yet still static and sharp. It’s something that’s pressing into the back of his eyes, and it’s running salt down his cheeks, and he hasn’t breathed deep in hours. It’s something that’s smothering all else but pictures of that sword, and that darkness, and that scream, and that  _face_. It’s something that’s beginning to trickle down his neck in tingles and thorns, all too powerful to be ignored because they’re all that seem physical now. It’s something that’s draining his every ounce of strength. It’s something that’s turning him cold.

As if the fact that his heart’s now destroyed wasn’t enough of a strike against his will, now he’s starting to question right and wrong, and something in the back of his head is screaming violence. Maybe it’s just the wine, or maybe it’s just his shock, or maybe it’s just his own damn fault for trying to peer into her brain...

But no, no, there’s got to be another reason. He wouldn’t be having these thoughts if they were meant to be simply forgotten. He wouldn’t have stolen that stranger’s sword with such certainty that its blade would taste blood. He’s feeling his rage on the back of his tongue, and it’s stinging like bile, and he knows — he just  _knows_  — that he can wash it away with revenge. He feels it in his gut, and in the base of his spine. It’s everything that he’s ever felt right in this world, and that scares him to death almost more than life.

It’s 2:52am, and suddenly, now the tides of his thoughts are pulling close. The snowflakes and seawinds creep through his open window, and the scent of the saltwater calls his name. The cliffs seem as tasteless as the tempered steel to his right, and he’s not sure which demon is hungriest. Tonight’s the first night in his life that he’s prayed that angels exist, but he’s starting to lose faith in dreams. Maybe the moonlight will give him a sign, casting shadows that spell out some sort of name. Maybe epiphany will come, and he’ll think straight again. Maybe this is all a bad dream...

But no, no, it couldn’t be that easy. In dreams, he can awaken if he shuts his eyes and shakes his head, but his tremors have proven that to be false. In dreams, the black spots on the backs of his hands aren’t so dull, and he can still see in colour instead of this miserable red. In dreams, he can always find a safe haven to rest, and when he calls her name, she is there. If this is a dream, then it’s a goddamn joke, and he doesn’t understand the punch.

It’s 3:12am, and Jenner suddenly hears his door creak open — submerged. The sounds are like cotton soaked in oil. The groaning of the door’s old hinges is like claws on glass. The sound of soft footsteps entering his room is just a cruel reminder of a place that he once could call home. He hears someone enter, and he thinks... nothing. He still can’t feel anything but the pressure of the ceiling, nor see anything but the glass in his fist. He wants to say something, but his tongue is now deadlocked by fear. He can do nothing at all but wait.

It’s a stupid,  _stupid_  hope, but he clenches his eyes shut, and he begs whatever invisible forces that fill this room to grant him one wish: that when he opens his eyes, he will be home. He’ll be in his library, and she’ll be in the doorway, and she’ll ask him what’s wrong, and he’ll tell her it was a nightmare, and she’ll wrap her arms around his shoulders, and she’ll hug him tight, and when she finally says she loves him, all the blackness will turn soft as down. It’s a stupid, stupid,  _stupid_  hope, but he’s a stupid, stupid,  _stupid_  man — in this moment, at least; or maybe he always has been.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid_... but it’s still a hope. He holds his breath...

Tick-tock, tick-tock, then Jenner hears his cousin Tourin’s voice whispering out a meek, “Jenn...?” and he tightens his grip on his glass.  _Now_  he finds that he can think again, but all of his thoughts simply tell him to run. He feels a burning under his skin that’s begging to taste air, but the prince is here now, so he waits. He finally finds that he can think again, but his thoughts scream escape and abandon. He wants to tell Tourin to leave him alone — leave him to rot in this Hell. Leave him alone to drown in these dreams, and in this fourth bottle of wine, and in the stagnant air of this room. Leave him alone to contemplate life — or what once was a life — and death.

It’s 3:20am and Tourin has never been so scared for another man’s life. He’s never seen Jenner’s eyes look so glassy and lost, nor seen trembles so close to convulsions. The fingers of Jenner’s left hand tangle his greying hair while he stares into a too-full glass of wine that he holds tight in the other. His knees are weak, though he doesn’t stand, hunched over his desk as if working. His eyes scan everything, but take nothing in, and he’s never before looked so grey...

Tourin takes a deep breath, trying to feign confidence, but he chokes on the stench of booze. Still, this is too important to turn back from — he knows it in the pit of his heart. The prince forces himself to wade through his fears, for though his skin is now prickled with something akin to terror,  _Jenner’s_  skin is now washed in grey. Tourin exhales the stale stench of blackberry wine, and he forces his posture to straighten. He needs to help him... or at least try to. “Jenner, are you alr—?”

“What, am I  _alright?_ ” Jenner suddenly snaps, immediately torn from his trance, and Tourin recoils from the volume. Honestly, Jenner hardly realises that he’s spoken a word, but he’s feeling the anger as warmth in his eyes. He stutters a bit over words that aren’t there, and when he inhales again, it feels like disease. “Do you really need to ask that, Tori?” Jenner chokes out, his voice rough as if he hasn’t spoken in years. “Did you forget what happened already? Did you forget how much she meant to me?”

Tourin takes a step back... but then takes two more forward. He reminds himself just how important this is — how important  _Jenner_  is — and it gives him the strength to stand straight. “Jenn, I wasn’t going to say anything like that,” he says, trying to stay calm for his cousin’s sake, though his voice cracks a half dozen times.

Jenner takes a fistful of his own hair — absentmindedly, but strong — and he stares down at the desk as if it’s an enemy. The glass in his hand feels like a part of him now. They’re one solid entity in the way they support each other — a hivemind of drunken vice. He takes a deep drink, and Tourin doesn’t know what to do. He just watches and hopes that it stops.

Not like the prince really knew in the first place if there was anything proper to say, but he’s suddenly aware of the empty bottles that are scattered about the floor — some in pieces, some intact, all stained with spillage and uncaring — and it wounds him. They’re all out of reach, though — both physically and metaphorically in distance. It’s all in the past, as are so many things now. It’s all been swallowed in grief.

It’s 3:26am, and Tourin takes another deep breath. He gets the feeling that being blunt about what he’s thinking will only be means for a fight, but... “Jenner, maybe if we talked together, it would help ease your mind of... what’s happened,” he says, praying that the words resound. He’s a bit unnerved, though, when his cousin doesn’t respond — not in anger, not in consideration, not in tears... Tourin’s terrified by the way Jenner’s shoulders cease to rise. He’s heartbroken by the way his hands quake. “You could... you could scream, or cry, and I’ll listen,” he adds, just trying to invent a remedy — and quick. “I want to help you, Jenner. I want—”

“You want me to shut up.”

Tourin sucks in a deep, pained breath. “ _No,_  Jenn,” he says, “I just want—”

“You just want me to shut up and move on and be happy, right?” and he holds the glass tighter in his fist. His words are like shattered steel. His voice is slurred and wet. Its colour is as flushed as his cheeks. He can’t seem to inhale at all. “You just want me to talk about my  _feelings_ , and cycle through the stages of grief, then smile and say, ‘You’re right, everything feels better now,’ so you can move on with your life in peace, huh?”

“Jenner, I—”

“You want me to just  _get over it_ already.”

“ _Absolutely not,_  Jenn,” Tourin interjects, louder and more stern than he ever thought he could sound. He draws courage from the foreign strength in his tenor — strength that he can use to speak on. “You deserve time to mourn, and time to be upset, and... and...” He’s out of ideas for that train of thought. He stutters. He sighs. He lifts his arms in false surrender. He backtracks. “I don’t want you to force happiness if you... aren’t ready to feel it genuinely,” he says. “But, at the same time... I also want to help you feel at least a  _little_  less pain...”

“Ha!” Jenner coughs out, “you want me to feel less  _pain?_  As if this disaster is just a wound you could bandage? A scab? A papercut? Just some broken skin?” Jenner’s slammed his glass down now. Its contents spill onto the desk in a splash. It stains the wood like blood. “What do you think this is, Tourin?” Jenner says — almost mocks. “Just a passage in a poem? A faerietale’s plot twist ending?”

“I think it’s a horrible tragedy,” Tourin forces himself to interrupt, “and I think that you should tell its tale.” Pause. “I mean... what’s a story if nobody hears it, right? It’ll just get trapped inside you...”

Tourin honestly doesn’t know if his words are helping, but he desperately wants Jenner to speak. He has faith — he has such  _overwhelming_  confidence — that if Jenner voices all of his emotions aloud, a part of them will stay trapped in the air. If he screams or shouts or just  _somehow_  lets it out, then the words will carry away a piece of his woe. Tourin knows that nothing will be cured, and he knows that Jenner will still have nightmares for months... but he has so much faith that talking will help that he just tries to drive the point home.

There’s a horrible silence as Jenner seemingly contemplates nothing at all. He twists the wine glass’ stem through his fingers, scratching its base against the desktop’s wood. Snowflakes softly fall onto the balcony’s rail. It’s a horribly misplaced sight of serenity.

“Fine,” Jenner finally says, “what do you want me to say, huh?” He kicks his chair back until his elbows rest on the desk’s edge. “What do you want to hear, Tourin? You want me to  _vent,_  huh? Just say what I’m  _thinking_ , and pray it gives solace? Is that right, Tourin? Is that what you’re hoping?”

“I just...” Well, now he doesn’t know anymore. Jenner sounds so resolute...

Jenner’s laugh is manic. “Alright,  _sure_  Tourin,” he says, then lifts the glass back to his lips. He takes a deep drink, then cradles it in his palm, then looks up to the ceiling as if to watch the scenes unfold. “You want to know what’s on my mind? I’ll tell you — are you ready? I’m thinking of how silent our goddamn house was when I came back from that errand that I shouldn’t have even ran. I’m thinking of how  _dark_  it was — like, how cliché is that, right? You... you have  _no_  idea how torturous it is, but I’m thinking of the way sh—... sh-she...” A sob rises up in his throat. He groans out a shrill cry of despair. He slams the glass down on the table. It’s a miracle that it doesn’t crack from the impact. “I’m thinking of how fucking  _still_  she was, and how nothing at all was warm. Have you ever seen a  _corpse_ , Tourin? Seen how goddamn  _still_  bodies are without breath? You just... you just don’t...” Another manic laugh. “You never realise just how much  _movement_  breathing and blinking truly do until you’ve seen them stopped. It’s hilarious, really — I’d never noticed before! What a cruel way to discover such poetic beauty!”

Tourin hugs himself tight, just trying to focus.

Jenner continues in a frenetic fortissimo. “I’m... I’m thinking of how fucking  _cold_  she felt, and how much  _blood_  there was on the floor. It was comical, really — like a goddamn horror novel cliché! Have you ever knelt in a pool of the blood of someone you love, Tourin? Do you have  _any_  idea how cold it feels on your knees? Do you have  _any_  idea how fast that chill rises? Did you know that  _all_  of the stereotypes hold truth?”

Tourin can see Jenner’s whole body growing rigid. The glass in his hand suddenly seems so fragile. He holds his breath. His thoughts are pained. “I don’t—”

And Jenner just laughs, laughs, laughs. “You know that old cliché of someone having a light in their eyes?” he asks. “You know, I  _thought_  that I knew what that sparkle looked like, until I’d seen it  _gone_. It’s...” He shakes his head. His laughter sounds more like sobs. “It’s so  _beautiful_  Tourin — the sparkle of life! It’s the closest thing to God that I’ve ever seen! And you know, it’s just so  _fucking funny_  to me how I never fully understood that until I’d seen it  _gone_.” He pauses for breath. He gasps for air. He shudders as if freezing. He speaks up once more. “I’m thinking of the stillness, and the redness, and how cold it was, and how lonely it was, and how  _dark_  it was, and of  _how her fucking eyes weren’t closed!_ ”

And he slams his fists down on the desktop again, and the glass finally shatters in his grip.

Tourin gasps, and he recoils in shock, and he turns away from the fear of impeding gore... But he can’t stay turned away right now. He knows that he must look back. Jenner needs to feel his support. He needs to know that Tourin is still listening.

Tourin takes a deep breath, and he prepares for the worst, and when he finally looks back, he can’t figure out where the wine ends and the blood begins. Does Jenner not feel the shards of glass, or does he not even care that they’re there?

Jenner’s balled both hands into fists now, completely unfazed by the pain. “Do you have...  _any_  idea what I saw...?” he asks, each word its own statement. He swallows hard. “Do you know what I saw — wh-what... what  _she_  saw — when... when I took her hand in mine, and I felt that I just  _needed_ to know what... what had happened...”

Each pause is filled with shallow, messy sobs. His every full breath is a triumph. Each coherent word is a blessing. Tourin simply can’t stop his tears from falling, though they’re silent in respect, or fear, or... something. The prince just keeps reminding himself,  _Once this is over, he’ll feel better... This has to be doing_ some _sort of good... I just don’t want to see him suffer..._

Jenner runs his left hand through his hair, further tangling the dishevelled locks. “It’s...” He pauses. He changes his mind. “No, no, you know what it is? It’s  _hilarious_ , really. It really is! You know why? It’s because you had  _always_  said that my curiosity would be the death of me, right? Ever since we were children, you always joked that I’d meet my fate if I didn’t stop acting on impulse, and sticking my nose where it didn’t belong, and trying to pry into other people’s business... And — it’s so goddamn funny — I always argued the notion, but you know what? You were right! I’m so proud of you for proving me wrong!”

Tourin’s never felt so sick from the sound of praise. He folds his arms tight around his chest.

Jenner clenches his fists tighter. “It wasn’t even just plain curiosity,” he says. “It felt like a  _necessity_. I  _needed_  to know who it was that’d done it. I needed to know  _why_. And do you know what I saw, Tourin? As a goddamn helpless bystander, do you know what he did to her?” He takes a deep breath. His voice crescendos. “I held her hand, and I  _watched it happen_ , Tourin! I saw the whole  _fucking_  thing!” And with those words, Jenner finally turns to look his cousin in the face.

Tourin meets his eyes, but finds he looks like a stranger — deranged, and foreign, and dark. He looks like he’s never smiled in his life. He looks like he’s ready to kill.

Jenner continues to tell the whole gruesome story — which is what Tourin had wanted, right? “I saw his face,” he says, “and I saw his sword, and I heard her  _scream_ , but I couldn’t do anything! I... I caught myself doing the  _silliest_ little thing, and... and do you know what it was?” He laughs again. It’s a cold, pained sound. “I reached out my hand! I really did! I reached out, as if I could catch the blade — as if I could stop it from descending, or shove it away. I wasn’t even  _there_ , Tourin, and I knew that! I knew it when I cast the spell! But I  _felt_  like I was there, and I saw his  _smug fucking face_ , and I heard the screaming, and the splashing, and the oozing, and the laughing!  _He was laughing!_  I reached out, but I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t deflect the blade. I couldn’t catch her as she fell. I couldn’t do  _anything_  but watch! And do you know  _why_  I couldn’t? Why I couldn’t do anything, even though I was living in that moment? It’s because,” — yet another laugh — “because, in reality, I was running a  _useless! Fucking! Errand!_ ” He slams his fist against the table with each word. The sound of crinkling glass against his palm is more painful than his shouting, and colder than the snow. “That’s the only reason she’s dead! She’s  _dead_ , because I was out! It’s my fault!  _It’s my fault!_ ”

“Jenner, it is  _not_  your fault,” Tourin snaps, finally speaking up and interrupting the speech, though needing to cough after the words leave his mouth from the sob that suddenly fills up his throat.

Jenner looks furious, though it seems misplaced. “How... could you possibly say that?”

His words were whispered, but Tourin responds in a shout. “Because it  _isn’t_  your fault, Jenner!” he says, and his shoulders heave with his gasp. His breath shudders like autumn leaves. His inhale is almost louder than his exclamation. “It isn’t your fault, because... because...”

...Shit.

How is it not?

He didn’t think of a reason...

“It’s my fault...”

“ _No_ , Jenner,” Tourin insists, “it was out of anyone’s control.”

Jenner raises his eyes to meet Tourin’s, and he hates that they look sincere. “What, are you saying this was destined to happen?” he asks. “That she was doomed from the beginning? That  _I_  was doomed, and our marriage, and our life? That this whole ordeal was  _fate?_ ”

Tourin stutters. His knees tremble. “M-maybe...” He clears his throat. “Maybe it was...”

Jenner’s eyes grow wide — or, at least, as wide as they can through the haze. His breath would catch, if he wasn’t panting so hard. He gags on nothing as he realises Tourin’s serious. His stomach feels suddenly sick. “You...” He chokes. He swallows hard. “You really believe that she was destined to die young? That  _I_  was destined to die alone?” His voice has suddenly hushed to the likeness of snowfall. His eyes have begun to read woe. “You... you’re honestly saying... that I was destined to want to... to...”

Tourin doesn’t want to hear it. Whatever it is, he  _doesn’t_. His volume suddenly mirrors a king in a court, and his timbre turns regal and dark. “Jenner, you know what?” he begins to explain, “I’m... I’m going to be as honest as I can. I don’t know  _anything_  about fates or destinies. I don’t know why things happen the way they do, and I don’t know why good men need to suffer—”

“So you’re sayin—”

“I’m  _saying_ ,” Tourin interrupts, “that nothing in this world makes sense.  _None_  of it. I don’t know why this had to happen. I don’t know why you — amazing, wonderful,  _loving_  you — were chosen to suffer like... like  _this!_ ” He throws a hand outward, gesturing to Jenner’s everything — at his trembling knees, and the shattered glass, and his tear-streaked cheeks, and the bottles on the floor. “It’s... i-it’s just  _cruel_ , you know?” Tourin continues. “This world is cruel.  _Fate_  is cruel.  _Life_  is cruel, but...” He takes another messy breath. He, too, balls his hands into fists. “But we just have to accept what happens, Jenn...” Or... maybe they don’t. He doesn’t know. But if this is a lie, it’s with good intent. He continues. “Nothing ever makes sense, and we’re all plagued by random events, and we can’t control them, and...” He sniffles loudly. “And  _you_  couldn’t have controlled her fate, just like... like you can’t control the snowfall.” He waves a hand in the window’s direction as he says this. “It’s just  _life_ , Jenn, and it’s cruel, and it’s hard, but... but we just have to keep living, you know? We just... have to accept what we’re given, and use it to grow, and... and just try to learn to forgive.”

Silence.

“We don’t  _have_  to keep living...”

And Tourin suddenly feels enraged. He takes a few furious steps forward. He points a finger towards Jenner’s face. “Don’t you  _dare_  talk like that, do you hear me?” he commands. “Don’t you  _ever, ever_  dare!”

Jenner whips his head up. There’s no light left in his eyes. “Why does it matter?”

“Because  _you_  matter, Jenn!”

“Who said I was talking about myself?”

Tourin had prepared a retort for something along the lines of, “No I don’t,” but... but this is...

This isn’t like him...

“You...”

Jenner’s expression is impossible to read, though he’s suddenly got a bit of a smirk. “Why do innocent people die while the wretched keep on living?” he says. “What gives the wicked the right to see the light of each new, beautiful day?”

Tourin can’t believe what he’s hearing. He can’t  _stand_  it. “Jenner, you can’t possibly mean...”

Jenner smiles a bit wider, and it’s frightening. “You said it yourself, Tourin,” he says in a rasp. “Nothing in this world makes sense. But we have to make do with what we are given, right? And...” He chuckles darkly. “And do you know what I have, Tourin? In my mind, burned forever, like a fucking  _curse_  or disease?”

Tourin holds his silence.

Jenner’s tears cascade once more — silently, but wholly like rain. “I have that bastard’s face, and the ability to find him. I have—”

“You wouldn’t...”

“—a way to find closure—”

“You couldn’t seriously...”

“—and a way to get  _revenge_.”

Tourin doesn’t know if he’s more scared or angry... But he refuses to believe that Jenner’s changed so much. He couldn’t. He  _wouldn’t_. He’s such a caring, loving man... “I...” He’s not crying anymore, but something is still cinching his throat tight. “I refuse to see you turn into that sort of  _monster_ ,” he says, steadfast. “You... you could never be so ruthless... I know how loving your heart is...”

Jenner’s expression remains the same. “Are you sure about that?” he asks.

Tourin can’t believe what he’s hearing... “You are  _not_  a monster, Jenner.” Another choked sob. “You... you could never be that evil...” Pause. “Please... please don’t...”

Jenner holds his silence... then his smile finally turns calm. “So you...” He hesitates. He stutters. He changes his mind. “Well now, don’t be so  _frightened_ , Tori,” he says. “You just told me to speak my  _thoughts_ , after all; not my...  _plans_ , right?”

Tourin doesn’t know what to say.

But Jenner doesn’t sound the slightest bit sincere.

But what can the prince do but believe? Is he really losing so much faith that he worries Jenner might actually...?

Tourin’s practically lost all hope and trust, but... “Yeah, you’re right,” he says. When the whispered words come out meeker than he’d hoped, he forces a shy laugh to feign strength. “I guess I just got... carried away, huh?”

And Jenner matches the laugh, and it’s only  _mostly_  false. “Well...” Pause. “I suppose we both did, huh?”

And it looks like his tears have finally stopped. His breathing is beginning to steady. His trembling is beginning to quell. His bloodshot eyes read closure. His smile turns wholly warm.

 _Maybe... maybe this really_ did _help_ , Tourin thinks.  _I... I thought he might not be changing his mind, but... he looks so calm right now..._

Tourin’s awkward laughter turns into a bit of a genuine giggle.  _He’s okay... he’s okay... he’s okay..._  “We’re, uh... just a couple of melodramatic losers, huh?” he attempts to joke, praying that it goes over well.

And, thankfully — much to Tourin’s relief — Jenner accepts it with a smile. “Pretty pathetic, I think.”

“Heh, absolutely.”

“We’re such babies, honestly.”

“That’s what  _I_  was thinking.”

A few more snickers; then, silence.

It’s 3:59am, and the darkness of the too-early morning is finally feeling soft once more. Maybe this whole breakdown is over. Maybe all the talking has worked. Maybe they’ll both sleep with less nightmares now. Maybe the snow will cease tempting red.

“Tourin, I’m very tired,” Jenner suddenly says as the clock chimes 4 o’clock.

Tourin didn’t realise that he was staring into the garden outside until he’s forced to turn his head to look back. Jenner’s voice seems clear of strain, and he’s finally breathing deep. He looks like he’s finally found some semblance of solace, but still, Tourin thinks,  _Should I trust him?_  “I, uh...” The prince swallows hard. He’s still choking on fear. He doesn’t know if all is as well as it seems; but, “I am too, Jenner,” he says.

A breeze blows in through the open window. The snow outside is so pure. There’s a hissing sound as Tourin drags his heel across the floor, but otherwise, there is nothing but silence.

Jenner is the first to break the hush, desperate for Tourin to leave. “Thank you,” he says, “for keeping me company, but... I really must sleep. And you should as well. It’s far too late to be awake.”

Honestly, the warmth and care in his voice is as soothing as evening sun, but despite the fact that he seems sincere, Tourin still thinks, _Should I trust him?_

His answer is meek, though it’s still mostly there: “Um... okay, I suppose.”

Jenner swallows hard again, then finally looks to the bloody mess in his fist. It’s the first time he’s noticed the wounds.  _When... when did that happen?_  He sighs. “I, uh...” He knows what he wants — he wants Tourin to leave — but he doesn’t know how to request it politely. “Tori, I, uhm...”  _Now_  he’s beginning to feel the pain in his palm. He winces as he stupidly tries to flex his fingers. “Please, just... let me tend to my wounds in peace,” he says, deciding to use this to his advantage. “I, uh... I know you’re squeamish.”

And it’s definitely true, but...

 _Should... should I really trust him?_  “Um...”

It’s 4:08am, and Tourin is doubting everything that he thought he knew in life.

But... No, no, everything is alright. Jenner is a kind and loving man. He’s devoted, and he’s just, and he’s smart, and he’s loyal. He’s only speaking so strangely because... he’s in shock right now; that’s all. He’ll come out of it. He’s got to. Once he wakes up in the morning, or something,  _then_  he’ll be back to his old self. As much as Tourin hates hearing the odd falseness of his tone, well... He’s still Jenner, right? That’s who he’ll always be. Nothing could ever change that. He could  _never_  change who he is. He could never become something else. He could never become some _one_  else. He could never be broken so thoroughly...

...Right?

“I’ll... I’ll leave you alone, then, Jenn,” Tourin softly whispers when he’s mostly convinced himself that everything’s alright, though a part of him immediately regrets the words when his doubt surges back at the sound.

But Jenner refuses to miss a beat — he just wants to be left alone. “Please do,” he says, too soft to be threatening, but still too stern to be calm. It’s a demand in disguise, and it worries the prince, but... he’s still Jenner, right?

Tourin has no more words to say. In fact... is there even anything  _to_  say? He just... he doesn’t know if leaving is a mistake... he doesn’t know what will happen come dawn...

Sheepishly, hesitantly, the prince begins to step back towards the door, muttering out a soft, “Alright.”

Jenner continues to request solitude by speaking in hidden commands. “Goodnight, Tori,” he says with a somewhat-genuine smile.

 _He sounds so resolute_... “Goodnight, Jenn.”

It’s 4:13am, and as Tourin finally convinces himself to open the door and begin to leave... he pauses in the threshold. He has one last thought. He needs to say it, just in case... “Jenner, if I can just... say one more thing...”

When he turns around, then looks up to meet his cousin’s eyes, he’s afraid to see that they don’t read calm anymore.  _That... that look... it returned so fast... Maybe leaving_ is _a mistake...?_

But Tourin tries his best to ignore it. He’s still the same Jenner, right? “I just, uhm...” He tries to plan out his words. “I just want you to know that, uhm...” He takes a deep breath. “I... I love you a lot, Jenner. All of us here do. I know... I know that everyone in this castle would be heartbroken if... if something happened to you. You’re, uh... You’re  _so_  important to this family — to  _me_. You’re... the closest relative I have. I feel, just...  _safe_  with you. You’ve always kept me safe since I was a child, and, uhm...”

He’s starting to go in circles.

But, well, at least  _now_  Jenner’s gaze is soft.

Silence.

Stillness.

Then, a heaving sigh. “I, uhm...” Jenner clears his throat. “I... love you too, Tourin,” he says. “I mean... you’re my little cousin. Nothing could ever change that. I’ve... known you your whole life, after all. I, uh... I never doubted that you cared...”

The words help to ease Tourin’s mind just the slightest bit.

But he’s still out of words to say.

So he just... continues on, though it pains him. He opens the door once more.

But then,  _Jenner_  stops him with one last thought. “Tourin, wait, I— I need you to know that, uhm...”

When Tourin turns his attention back around, honestly surprised by Jenner’s sudden change of heart, he sees that the once-spotted Gelert is looking down into his bloodied palm, and he refuses to raise his eyes. It’s so,  _so_  worrisome; but...

Jenner finally speaks once more, and despite the haze that’s still wreaking havoc in his intoxicated mind, his words are finally full of his normal eloquence: “No matter what happens in the future, Tourin, and no matter where this big, stupid journey of life takes us... please know that I will always care about you. No matter what...  _decisions_  I make...” He breathes deep. “Never doubt that you matter, and...” He exhales long. “And know that nothing is your fault.”

Tourin  _thinks_  he knows what the cryptic words mean... and he absolutely hates it.

But... no, no, it  _couldn’t_  be that. It just  _couldn’t_. Jenner is still Jenner, and nothing could change that...

Right?

Isn’t that right?

_Please, Fyora, if I may have one wish... Please, just let that be right..._

“I’ll, uh...” Tourin drums his fingers against the door — once, twice, three times... — but, “I’ll make sure to remember that,” is all he can bring himself to say, though he wishes he could recite a novel. His thoughts are racing. His palms are sweating. He’s losing faith again... but he forces himself to let it go. He turns around, and opens the door, and then there is silence once more.

When Tourin finally exits the room, another wave of sobbing rises into his throat. He gasps, and he chokes, and he coughs with his tears, but... no, no, everything will be alright. Jenner is still Jenner. Everything will be alright. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine.

It’s 5:57am when Tourin, sleepless from nightmares, sees it.

He looks out the window beside his bed, and he sees Jenner escaping through the garden in a rush; his face buried in the palms of his shaking hands, and a stolen sword strong at his hip.


End file.
